I wanted a wife. And I wanted it to be the borderline midget who was currently crawling under the table to scoop up a bug that had infiltrated the room.
She ran while flinching and making terrified noises as some kind of beetle tried to escape her hands. When she finally flung it out the door, an older woman came in screeching a second later with a giant beetle in her hair. Belle, of course, tried to swat it out of the woman’s hair and ended up missing.
There was a deafening crack as Belle open palm slapped some poor grandmother in the forehead.
I watched it all happen as I felt honey-sweet happiness spread through me. That little disaster was going to be my wife, and at least one of us wasn’t going to be pretending.35BelleWhen I finally sat down beside Chris for the start of the rehearsal dinner, I felt like I’d run a marathon. The huge table was full of happily chattering guests who were already snacking on appetizers and sipping drinks. I’d mostly put the beetle incident behind me, but when I looked at the poor old woman, I could still see a red outline of my hand on her forehead.
Beside me, Chris had made an attempt at dressing for the occasion. Trying to fit himself into formal, classy attire seemed a little like listening to a violin playing rock music. There was a light flavor of fancy, but at the end of the day, rock was still rock, and Chris would always be Chris.
He’d rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, despite me asking him not to this morning, and the velvety maroon vest he wore over his shirt seemed to hug his muscular frame in an obscenely sexual way. I’d even personally witnessed him combing his wild dirty blond hair this morning, but it had already reverted to its natural state of messiness.
It looked like I’d invited some dangerously charming sex pirate to my wedding rehearsal.
Chris leaned over to whisper in my ear. “If I knew there was going to be grandma slapping, I would’ve been way more hyped for this thing.”
“It was an accident. And she was very kind about the whole thing.”
“You ready for this?” Chris got up without waiting for a response and tapped his fork against the side of his glass. “I believe it’s customary for these things to include a roast.”
“Toast,” I hissed up at him. “Toast.”
“Nope,” he said quietly to me. “I spent several seconds on a search engine to figure out what a wedding rehearsal was and clearly saw something about a roast.” He winked down at me. “Don’t worry, I got this.”
Too late. I was worried.
Chris started strolling around by his chair, looking more than comfortable—he looked practically delighted to be exactly where he was at exactly this moment. Of course he did. He was causing chaos and making my life hell. If there was one thing I’d learned about the man, it was that his happy place was somewhere between my legs and making me a nervous wreck.
“My roast is going to start with my dear brother, Damon. Damon,” he said, gesturing benevolently toward his brother, who I imagined was already fuming. “You’re the gray sprinkle on the rainbow cupcake that is our lives. You’re the reason we all have a middle finger, and about as much fun as an unsalted pretzel. Oh, and Chelsea, if he’s holding you hostage, just blink two times for us. Yep. See? While we’re on the topic of my brother’s lovely wife…”
I sat and endured Chris’ “roast” while I wished I could curl inside my own body like a human turtle. It was a slight relief that everybody was laughing along with Chris, who probably could’ve charmed his way out of jail.
But my relief ended a few minutes later when Chris concluded his little roasting spree and nodded to me. “Now, please put your hands together for my wifey, Belle.”
“Fiancée,” I corrected under my breath. I stood up, then remembered to tap my knife against my glass a few times. My mouth felt dry, especially when I took in the endless pairs of eyes watching and waiting for me to follow up Chris’ little impromptu comedy act. “So, um. I prepared a toast. My lovely fiancé doesn’t have the best listening skills. You could say he’s… Um.” I trailed off. I’d been hoping some hilarious blast of wit would come to me, but all I felt was dry wind and tumbleweeds floating around in my head.
“Right. So my toast. Thanks so much for everyone who came.” I had about six paragraphs more of my toast that I’d practiced in the mirror, written, re-written, taken notes on, and spent hours thinking about. Instead of finishing it, I practically fell back into my seat. “Thank you.”